I took the boys to get their haircut. That was the highlight of my day. However; as I sat there watching them get their trims, I had this sense that everyone was staring at me. The Prednisone has my face so blown up that I feel like a freak. And then my anxiety causes me to think that everyone feels that way as well. I know they don't...deep down, but I still think the worst nonetheless. I have so much to tell my therapist next week. I may have to go over my hour!
To be perfectly honest, I am terrified in a way that I have never been in my life. One of my biggest fears are tornadoes, and tornadoes pale in comparison to the fear I feel right now. Everything feels as though it is unfolding in slow motion and the constellation of emotions that fills my day-their sheer number and intensity- leaves me mentally exhausted.
I have taught my children that there are two kinds of fear: the fear that protects, and the fear that paralyzes. The former keeps you alive while the latter keeps you from living. My youngest son lives in the type of fear that paralyzes, especially whenever there is a storm (any kind of storm). Now the irony of all this is that I am trying so desperately to make choices that will protect me that I end up feeling completely paralyzed. The responsibility that I feel for choosing the right path is enormous and weighs on me like a suit of armor that immobilizes more than it protects.
At one point in my life, I was able to discern between the two types of fear. There was a difference in the way they felt in my gut. There is a difference between the adrenaline surge that keeps you from walking down a dark alley and the one that keeps you from boarding a plane to your exotic vacation. Maybe our guts truly understand probability. Now, my gut is in a knot and I cannot discern its messages. All it seems to be saying is, "I am desperately afraid." I am trying to innumerate and understand my fears, hoping that it might be able to deal with them one by one.
Little of my fears or anxiety lie in the past. I have very few regrets, which is a blessing for me. Not everyone can say that. I fill that I have lived my life fully so I need not waste valuable energy contemplating foregone opportunities. Like most people, I am afraid of what lies ahead: the months, and hopefully, the years to come.
Perhaps the greatest of my fears is the uncertainty of what lies ahead for me. I am terrified of the impending surgery, more medicine, praying that the doctors truly know what it is they are doing...I am pretty much terrified of my disease. I don't want this to be my ending. Of course, I am acting like I know the ending, when in reality, I don't know at all.
I am afraid of being a failure. All of my life, I have tried to achieve all of my goals. I thrived on being the best me I could be. I was competitive. I had to be the best at everything I did. What I lacked in innate intelligence, I was able to compensate for with hard work and tenacity. And now, I cannot seem to effect any change in my health. I feel responsible to fix this, to rectify the situation; yet, I seem powerless to do so. My lack of control and my irrational sense that this is somehow my fault is fueling a depression that I also cannot contain.
I am afraid of mental suffering. I have endured physical pain over the last year and throughout my life and I can honestly say, it pales in comparison to emotional anguish. Depression is an insidious and powerful beast. There are days when I feel like someone has cast a gray film over everything. I search for joy wherever it lies. A few weeks ago, the kids and I had a dance party in the living room. It was honestly such a small thing, but it put such a huge smile on all of our faces and made life seem normal, if only for a moment. Then there are moments like today when all I can see is everything I stand to lose and I want to curl up in a ball and die, just to get it over with. So it doesn't have to hurt so much everyday.
I am afraid of leaving my children without a mother. I worry that they will never be able to heal the hole in their heart. I know that if they lost me, they would never be the same. I need to be able to look at my children and say, "I did everything I reasonably could to stay." Even mothers who don't have a terminal illness worry about leaving their children motherless.
I try to stay focused in this moment. I physically feel my body in its surroundings. I have finally come to the realization that being present in the moment does NOT mean being happy; it means feeling whatever you are feeling at the time: sadness, fear, desperation. Being one with my feelings seems to neutralize them somehow. It was very hard for me to realize that I needed to see a therapist. I am very hell bent on being strong enough to manage all this by myself.
There is an old adage about the past being history, the future being a mystery and the today being a gift. I try to express that same sentiment throughout my day to remind myself that I AM still here and to resist the urge to enter some emotional coma that deprives me of the joy that is still readily available to me.
I guess I didn't fully realize how hard all of this would be on me emotionally. I was never a big fan of amusement parks and I feel like I am on an interminable roller coaster ride. And I am holding on for dear life in more ways than one.
Our lives are filled with so many hard decisions these days. The emotional weight of it all is honestly wearing me down. But, we keep putting one foot in front of the other because we are surrounded by such loving friends and family.
I don't know what I did to be worthy of such an outpouring of affection but it is truly what sustains me.
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